


The Behavioural Patterns of Commitment-Phobic People

by BirdofFire



Series: The Science of Soulmates [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, F/M, M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdofFire/pseuds/BirdofFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t a story about searching for your One True Love™.</p><p>Nor is it a story about finding that aforementioned One True Love™.</p><p>It isn’t a story about two guys who take almost a century to realise they’re fated to be together.</p><p>This is more of a story about a commitment-phobic girl named Darcy Lewis, and what happens when her supposed True Loves show up uninvited and decidedly unwanted.</p><p>...</p><p>It's also a story about a team of occasionally co-dependent superheroes who quickly learn what it means to be a family, or as Darcy would put it, a group of misfit ducks who finally find themselves right at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**The Behavioural Patterns of Commitment-Phobic People**

 

* * *

 

**I**

 

“Life will not break your heart. It'll crush it.”   
― Henry Rollins

 

* * *

 

This isn’t a story about searching for your One True Love™.

Nor is it a story about _finding_ that aforementioned One True Love™.

It isn’t a story about two guys who take almost a century to realise they’re fated to be together.

This is more of a story about a commitment-phobic girl and what happens when her supposed True Loves show up uninvited and decidedly unwanted.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves….

 

…

_five…_

 

If you were to ask Darcy Lewis what she had against soul-mates, you couldn’t count on getting an honest answer.

An answer, yes, but not an honest one.

  “It wouldn’t be fair to deprive everyone else of the Darcy.” – was one of her favourite ones.  

The nonsensical - “They don’t match the rest of the furniture” – also got a fair bit of use. 

On special occasions, she even threw in a strange ‘Euurggghh….’ noise. That last one always drew confused looks.

As Darcy grew older, however, she was humoured far less and humourlessly laughed at far more. The idea of rejecting one’s soul-mate(s) for anything other than the best of reasons, you see, was practically unheard of.

…

In a bid to distract the public at the height of the Cold War, Soul-mate-Identifying Timers, or S.I.D.s, were introduced. Intended to make the process of identifying one’s True Love™ as easy as possible, S.I.D.s were calibrated using DNA and brainwave patterns recorded at birth and given out on one’s eighteenth birthday.

If your soul-mate had yet to reach maturity, the S.I.D.’s digits were blue and read 00:00 until they did.

If your mate had already reached maturity, the digits were green and counted down to when you should expect to meet them.

The program, initiated by the Japanese government, caught on quickly, with almost every country in the western world starting up some variation of it by the end of the decade, and after it was deemed an almost universal success by the public and authorities alike, it was passed into law that every child was entitled to receive an S.I.D. upon reaching maturity.

Those who were past their eighteenth birthday at the time the program started also received S.I.D.s, and divorce rates skyrocketed in the months immediately following its inception.

It came as a surprise just how many people had ‘settled’ for what they now deemed ‘second best’.

…

Bruce Banner, born mere months before the S.I.D. program saw American shores, was the child of two such people – Anna and Brian.  Raised by his loving mother, and subjected to the cruelties of his father, Bruce became a staunch supporter of the S.I.D. movement with a child’s strong belief that the main reason for his father’s abuse was that his parents were simply ‘irreconcilable’. It was a term he’d heard thrown around by the black-and-white figures on the small, staticky television in the Banners’ dull brown living room.

It wasn’t until long after his mother’s death that he realised that his parents’ Status had nothing to do with what had happened in that tiny, one-storey house in Jackson, Indiana.

…

The initiative was an instant hit, injecting hope into the tired shell of the American public by either giving them something to live for or making them appreciate what they already had.  In the months immediately following its inception, ‘ _I’ve Found My Mate_ ’ parties became a huge thing, and even those who had years to wait before meeting their destined one found themselves with a new purpose, a spring in their step that had been missing for too long, if it had ever been present at all.

It didn’t take long for alleged issues with the program to emerge, though.  For hundreds of years, those convicted of homosexuality had tried (in vain) to claim protection under the law established in the Magna Carta by asserting that their partner was their soul-mate. It has since been argued by sociologists that The Powers That Be had hoped to eradicate the claim that homosexuality was anything more than an abomination, proving once and for all that one’s soul-mate would always be of the opposite gender – As God Intended®.

What the authorities hadn’t counted on, however, was the S.I.D. program providing scientifically definitive proof that homosexuality was more than just a ‘passing phase’, or as was commonly believed at the time, a pestilent oddity.

They also hadn’t considered the possibility that some people would have more than one soul-mate.

By the end of the year,  over twenty thousand people had come forward as being either newly bi-sexual or gay, with as many claiming that they had multiple soul-mates (sometimes as many as three or four).

By the end of the following year, the right to marry someone of the same sex and the right to marry more than one person were made human rights.

…

While most of the other children at St Agnes ached to be taken home by the assortment of well-dressed people who visited the home on a monthly basis, Skye No-Last-Name (no relation) had spent her entire childhood anticipating her eighteenth birthday. The promise of an S.I.D. kept her going through foster home after foster home, when the Brodys sent her back to the orphanage, and when she decided that living rough would be better than sticking around where no one would miss her.

The Rising Tide, a computer ‘hacktivist’ group most law enforcement agencies didn’t even know existed, gave her a cause, something to fight for while she waited out what she called her ‘sentence’ – one considerably lengthier than the average inmate served. The group also helped her arrange for that S.I.D. she was so desperate for, despite her name change – something that would have made receiving one next to impossible.

The S.I.D. represented something she’d always wanted – a family; one ready-made and destined to be hers alone, and though she had to jump through several hoops the Rising Tide threw into the air in order to get one, it was well worth it.

Contrary to meteorologists’ predictions, the day of her eighteenth birthday dawned bright and clear, though the air was muggy and almost heavy with Skye’s expectations. The moment she clipped the cold, metallic watch-like structure onto her wrist, it started counting down, and in doing so, revealed more than Skye had ever hoped for.

The screen was split horizontally in half – something Skye had only seen a few times in her life on the wrists of a handful of visitors to St Agnes.

05:23:17:36:02 – Five Years. Twenty-three Days. Seventeen Hours. Thirty-Six Minutes. Two Seconds.

05:25:22:09:13 – Five Years. Twenty-five Days. Twenty-Two Hours. Nine Minutes. Thirteen Seconds.

Two soul-mates. _Two_.

Skye’s eyes prickled and she stubbornly blinked her eyes against them, refusing to let Gabriel, her on-again, off-again hook-up, see her in a moment of weakness.

  “What does it say?” he asked, eyes bright with excitement. He still had a couple of years to go before he’d meet his other half. Skye cleared her tightened throat.

  “Just over five years. I have two,” she added disbelievingly, turning to look at the dark-skinned boy before her. 

While Gabriel congratulated an ecstatic Skye, a few thousand miles away in an air duct in Paris, the 00:00s on two men’s timers changed to half-decade countdowns.

  “They’re eighteen,” a previously grave Clint Barton commented to his companion, light-blue eyes shining with excitement.

  From beside him, Phil Coulson replied, smiling, “She. I think it’s a she.”

…

_four…_

Darcy was raised in a happy home by two soul-mates who had bumped into each other in some half-forgotten record store on 32nd Street. Neither could believe that, despite having grown up just a few streets away from each other, they’d had to travel hundreds of miles to find one another.

They’d moved back to Phoenix, Arizona a month later.

…

While many people embraced the news that they had either already found their mate or had one out there, some weren’t as lucky. And for those select few, the consequences of the S.I.D. program were far less publicised.

You see, there were actually _four_ colours that the digits on an S.I.D. could be.  The green digits on some S.I.Ds suddenly started flashing red, something the Japanese scientists who’d created them simply could not explain.

A few years later, the timer on the S.I.D. of a man from the _Azabu_ - _Jūban_ district of Tokyo went off, and he glanced up as the shrill siren of the matching one sounded from across the street. He waved frantically, beaming at his new-found mate, only to watch in horror as the man, eagerly running towards him, was run over by a truck.

The digits on his timer started flashing red.

There was also a part of the population whose mates had died before they were even born. The digits on their S.I.D.s counted down in negative numbers and were a stubborn, morose black.

Some even counted as far back as hundreds of years.

Within a month of the Japanese government reporting these findings, the suicide rate had tripled.

…

On joining S.H.I.E.L.D., Natalia Romanova received her first timer. A shiny metallic thing, clumsy on her slender wrist.

The second it touched her skin, the digits on its grey face turned black.

…

Organised, efficient and trustworthy, but with a temper deserving of her long, red hair, Virginia Potts fit right in at Stark Industries. Her job was interesting, challenging and paid well enough, affording her and her new puppy, Bono, a neat one-bedroom apartment in the Valley.

On the day her timer was set to go off, Virginia went to work as usual, figuring that if her mate was going to show up, she’d meet him or her regardless. From past experience, she knew that allowing someone to even suspect that she’d always prioritise their hopes and dreams over hers was no way to start a relationship.

But that didn’t keep her heart from pounding a repetitive baseline against her ribs.

She was so distracted that she almost didn’t catch it, though it made her wonder just how Matthews had missed it. It wasn’t like he had an excuse, and the man was such a mule-headed hard-ass that she couldn’t resist rubbing it in his face.

An error in one of Stark’s calculations. It was practically unheard of.

With a quick glance at her timer (00:00:00:27:32), she swept out of her cubicle in her favourite black pencil skirt and heels, stencilled paper in hand.

Matthews sent her back not once but twice, and it took the intervention of his supervisor, Megan Allen, to get him to admit to his mistake. After Allen instructed Matthews to inform Mr Stark of his error, Matthews, visibly shaking with rage (the petty little man), ordered Virginia to do what he’d just been told to.

With its wood panelling and nineteenth-century styling, the rarely-used private elevator to Stark’s office whispered of hushed wealth, a contradiction to his infamously extravagant and debauched lifestyle. Her stomach resting somewhere near her feet, Virginia took several deep breaths as the quiet _dings!_ signalled the passing of each floor.

It wasn’t until she’d crossed the plush, carpeted floor of Stark’s reception that she glanced down at her shaking hands and saw that her S.I.D. was at 00:00:00:00:37.

_Thirty-seven seconds._

How had that happened?

But then… that would mean…

_twenty…. nineteen… eighteen…_

No. There was no way.

_eleven… ten… nine…_

As the seconds continued to run down, Virginia took a deep breath and straightened her spine. She was Virginia Potts, goddamn it. It didn’t matter who her mate was. There was no way she was going to meet them ( _him_ ) looking a nervous, dishevelled mess.

_four… three… two…_

With a small, steadying toss of her head, Virginia knocked firmly on the oak door.

…

  “ _So, you’re my…”_

_“Looks that way.”_

_“Do you want to-“_

_“No, actually. Not right now, anyway. The best relationships have a solid foundation, and I’m still – God, this sounds so cliché – working on me…? And you don’t seem the type who’s ready to give up – all of this, so…”_

_“All of this?”_

_“The women, the partying…”_

_“Huh.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Very few people could have spotted that mistake, Pepper.”_

_“I know – wait, what? My name’s Virginia.”_

_“Not with those adorable freckles, it’s not. Little flecks of Pepper.”_

_“That’s ridiculous. I won’t answer to that name.”_

_“If you want to work for me, you will.”_

_“I already work for you.”_

_“Directly for me, Pep - as my personal assistant. You’re brilliant and clearly not afraid of me, and this way, we’ll get to know one another while we’re ‘finding ourselves’.”_

_“I – “_

_“You’ll start at $250,000 a year. It sounds like a lot, but you’ll earn every cent putting up with me. Or so I’ve been told.”_

_“Okay, but I’ll need dental and an expense account as well - if you’re truly as bad as they say.”_

_“Why, Miss Potts! Are you flirting with me?”_

_…_

The next day, Pepper took Bono to live with her sister, Pamela, and her three kids. With a Tony Stark to look after, she no longer had time for a dog.

…

 _three_ …

When Steve Rogers awoke unceremoniously in the twenty-first century, one of the things he was most amazed by was the S.I.D. program. In his day, soul-mates rarely found each other, and it was also next to impossible to prove whether someone really was destined for you.

Sarah Rogers’ romance novels often featured mates who overcame extreme adversity to be together, and Steve and his best friend, Bucky,  regularly snuck, giggling, into her room while she was at work to read the steamier scenes to each other.

It wasn’t until after the Battle of New York that Steve finally got his S.I.D., though. It had taken some of Tony Stark’s best work to account for his restructured DNA, which made him something a little more than human. He was a little disappointed that its digits meant that he and Peggy hadn’t been mates, but happy that they also meant that she hadn’t spent her life with her other half frozen in some godforsaken iceberg.

His timer had that horizontal split, but while one set of digits was standard and showed that he had a three-year wait to meet one of his mates, the other was a little strange. It counted down just fine, showing that he had less than two years before he’d meet his other mate, but the digits were a startling white.

Less than two years later, on a cloudy March day, Steve’s timer went off as a polished metal arm punched through the windscreen of a speeding car.

…

After meeting his mate three days before his twenty-sixth birthday, Sam Wilson had continued wearing his S.I.D. for posterity’s sake. The digits were a green 00:00.

The second Riley Johnson hit the sandy floor of a stiflingly hot Afghan desert, the digits on Sam’s S.I.D. turned a searing red.

…

_two…_

On discovering that neither of them wore an S.I.D, Darcy and Jane Foster bonded immediately. It was such a rarity that Jane laughed aloud while Darcy leapt up and down, shrieking in excitement.

Darcy couldn’t remember the last time someone hadn’t reacted to her bare wrist with anything nicer than polite confusion.

As for Jane, it hadn’t mattered that she’d been the only applicant to reply to Jane’s advertisement; she would have taken Darcy on even if there’d been a hundred others just for that.

A few months later, when a tall, brick-shithouse-built (thanks, Darcy), golden-haired man crashed into Jane’s truck in the middle of the desert, the only sounds had been of screeching tires and hilariously shocked screams.

…

After her mother died of cancer on her seventh birthday, Elizabeth Ross watched as her father gradually grew as cold and bitter as the Boston winters they endured yearly. Thaddeus and May were part of the small group of people who were already with their respective mates when the S.I.D. program launched, to their delight, and May’s passing took a heavy toll on Elizabeth’s father.

Betty, the nickname May had given Elizabeth, was one of the only memories of his wife’s presence that Thaddeus allowed to remain in their lives.

Though she understood her father’s despair, Betty had a hard time reconciling the man she saw in old recordings with the gruff figure that had raised her. Despite all that, she loved him dearly, as did he her, though he had a harder time showing it than most.

It’s a shame then that all it took to change that was Betty bumping into a lanky, dark-eyed, messy-haired young man on the stairs of Culver University’s main building and the shrill sound of two timers ringing in unison.

…

_one…_

  “OMT, Jane,” Darcy huffed as she shifted the heavy box from one hip to another. “What have you got in here: bricks?”

Jane breezed past her, a box in her slender arms. Slight as she was, she had what Darcy called ‘the strength of a crackhead’ – deceptive and inexplicable.

  “Just put it over there,” Jane replied, voice muffled by the cardboard. Rolling her eyes, and wishing she’d worn a sports bra, Darcy dumped the box on the nearest desktop.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Darcy grumbled, reluctantly moving back towards the elevator where the other boxes were preventing its doors from closing. “We’re moving into a house full of superheroes and not one could be bothered to help you. I can’t even.”

  “They were going to, but they had to go deal with that HYDRA outpost, remember?” Jane answered, already unpacking the box she’d just brought in, DESPITE THE FACT that there were a hundred more still in the elevator.

Darcy could have quite happily killed her.

And no, she _hadn’t_ remembered that whole HYDRA outpost thing; forgive her. She’d been too busy schlepping one-ton boxes from the rental truck into the lift and back out of it WITHOUT HELP.

And no, Jane didn’t count as help because she’d only carried in three boxes before getting distracted by all the shiny new equipment Tony Stark had bought for her.

Fuck them both. Seriously.

  “Uggghhh...” Darcy replied, deeming it a more than sufficient answer considering the tearing brown box she was now hauling single-handedly out of the elevator.

Before her, lay a large white room filled with more than a Few of Jane’s Favourite Things – whiteboards, telescopes, brand new _Stark_ desktop and laptop computers and much more. Sadly, not much of the white desktops could be seen as the surfaces were covered in suspiciously stained cardboard boxes filled with what seemed like the entire contents of Jane’s house.

Having helped a never-tiring Thor pack almost all of them, Darcy could attest to that being a fact.

  “Well, when they get back, they can help you unpack, because I have to go and get _my_ stuff,” Darcy panted (Dear God, she could _not_ be this out of shape), giving up looking for spare square footage on a desktop and practically throwing the box onto a wheelie chair. When Jane didn’t reply, Darcy glanced over from where she was resting her head on one precariously balanced box to see that the other woman was off in Sciencey-Cuckoo Land and clearly hadn’t heard a word she’d just said.

The sweeping sound of closing doors caught Darcy’s attention, and she turned in despair to see the elevator doors shutting tight, leaving a box all by its lonesome on the clean white vinyl floor.

And the other boxes still inside the fucking elevator.

This could _not_ be Darcy’s life.

  “Nooooooeeee,” she screeched, racing towards the now descending elevator. As Jane continued to do whatever-the-fuck, Darcy desperately pressed the call button, praying to whoever might be listening that the boxes would still be in the elevator when it returned, because _if she had to go looking for them-_

“Jane!” she yelled, looking back to where Jane was still caressing each piece of equipment like they were her offspring. “Can you get your ass over here?” Distantly, she heard  _dings!_  as the elevator passing each floor on its way back up the tower.

Oh, thank… whoever was listening.

  “Jane! Will you _just_ -?!” she screeched, hurriedly pushing the lone box towards the one perched on the wheelie chair. Jane (finally!) perked up like a meerkat, frowning in annoyance as if Darcy was being a nuisance.

Yes, this was Darcy’s life, all right.

After Darcy exaggeratedly waved her arms in the direction of the elevator, Jane caught on and she carefully placed a homemade telescope on a nearby desk before making her way across the room.

  “How could you let the elevator go?” Jane asked, brown eyes wide as a startled deer’s in the dead of night.

Darcy was _actually_ going to kill her.

  “Are you kidding me? I was moving all the boxes, as ‘carefully as I would my own children’, without any help!” Darcy mimicked Jane, the _dinging!_ of the elevator sounding distantly in her ears.

  “I helped you!”

  “You call moving two boxes ‘help’?”

  “Well, I-“

_DING!_

Startled by the suddenly loud arrival of the elevator, Darcy and Jane turned in its direction, praying that the boxes would still be inside ( _because Darcy would be_ damned _if she was going to go looking for them. Fuck that_ ).

The doors slid open, revealing two men: one clad in blue with a white star on his chest, the other in black leather with a metallic-looking arm. As Darcy’s eyes switched between blue startled ones and green-grey confused ones, the shrill ringing of two sirens sounded in harmony.

.

 

 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy, Bucky and Steve have a stand-off and the Avengers have breakfast....

 

**II**

 

 

“There are many truths of which the full meaning cannot be realised until personal experience has brought it home.”   
― John Stuart Mill

 

* * *

 

 

_Up until the initiation of the S.I.D. program, polyamorous relationships were uncommon and rarely spoken of.  Many who found themselves with more than just one mate had difficulty accepting it, and even more challenging for them was the idea that one or more of their mates might be of the same sex.  While discrimination based on sexual preference is now blessedly uncommon, it was not too long ago that homosexuality was illegal and even punishable by death. In turn, polygamy was also strictly prohibited in many countries, and heavily stigmatised due to its being perceived as immoral. Of course, that is to say nothing of its inherent gender bias and the inequality that was one of its founding pillars - something that will be discussed at length in chapter twelve._

-          _‘The Science of Soul-mates’ (1988) –_ Alice Richards, Professor of Genetics and Head of the Genetics Unit at Oxford University.

…

Even after the sirens stopped, Darcy swore her ears were still ringing. She stood frozen, fingertips tingling. She had always known this day would come, but knowing and _knowing_ are two completely different things.

Well, _this_ was one downside of not wearing that wretched S.I.D.

Beside her, she could feel Jane practically vibrating; the other woman was standing so close. It was that that kept her grounded in her new, unwelcome reality.

  “So…” Jane’s clipped tones sounded from beside her. The two men in the elevator, who Darcy now recognised as the Winter Soldier and _Captain fucking America_ , were standing stock-still, staring right back at her as if they couldn’t quite believe their eyes.

  “Yeah,” Darcy replied unconsciously.

  “Huh.”

  “Yep.”

  “There’s _that_.”

A choked-sounding laugh escaped Darcy’s throat at Jane’s dry comment. Talk about understatement of the century. The elevator doors started to close, but before Darcy could even blink, a metallic arm shot out, stopping them in their tracks.

   “You’re… ” The Winter Soldier’s voice trailed off, those hypnotic eyes of his locked on hers. Darcy straightened her spine even as her heart kicked against her ribs.

  “Apparently,” she replied. He flashed a brief but blinding grin, and Darcy’s stomach twisted painfully. This was going to be even worse than she’d thought.

  “I’m Bucky.” He stepped out of the lift, running a careless hand through his short, slightly curly hair.

  “Darcy,” she answered absent-mindedly, gaze darting back to the tall blond still in the lift. He and the boxes stared back, as if waiting for something. _Oh, yes_. Sending Bucky a small smile, she walked past him and made to pick up the box, only for Captain America – _Steve_ \- to beat her to it. Now balancing four boxes in his arms like they didn’t weigh a thing, he turned back to her, a bright, expectant smile in place.

Darcy was going to need sunglasses if this carried on.

  “Where d’ya want them?” His deep voice had the same Brooklyn lilt Bucky’s did, which was even more distinct in person. Huh. Gorgeous _and_ helpful – just how Darcy liked her men. She sighed. It was such a shame.

  “Over there, please.” She made a concentrated effort not to eye his famous ass as he walked away.

Given the fine specimen before her, though, that was easier said than done, and it only got harder when Bucky sauntered past with the last box, clad in all that leather. If he’d been anyone else, Darcy would have vowed to find a way to peel it off with her teeth by week’s end.

Jane darted her a look of sisterly acknowledgment and received a half-hearted glare in return. What was the use in Darcy looking through the window if she didn’t plan on ever buying anything?

Life was such a bitch sometimes. A bitch with Chlamydia and a late paycheck, she was sure.

  “This is Steve, as you probably already know.” Bucky shouldered his blond companion good-naturedly. Steve rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond. “He’s our third. We’re your –”

  “I know.” Darcy cut him off, though not unkindly. There was no use in putting it off much longer. “Well, technically.”

Bucky cocked his head, clearly confused, (which, okay, _adorable_. _God_ , this was so unfair) while Steve raised a delicate brow. “Technically?”

  “Oh, boy,” Jane muttered from the whiteboard, where she was pretending (poorly) not to eavesdrop.

Suddenly, clipped British tones sounded from overhead. “ _Mr Barnes, Mr Rogers, the other Avengers request your presence in the main living room._ ” A small smile curved Darcy’s lips at the cultured voice of her A.I. boy, J.A.R.V.I.S. When she first visited the Tower with Jane a year ago, she and the electronic butler had gotten on like Regina and Gretchen before they met Cady, much to Tony’s (hilariously possessive) chagrin.

  “Give us a sec’, Jarv,” Bucky replied, gaze returning from the tiled ceiling to focus once again on Darcy. Steve was leaning against one of the desks, deliciously-muscled arms folded. He hadn’t looked away from her for a second since his arrival.   

  “I’m not really all that interested in… _this_.” Darcy answered firmly. She’d always believed in ripping Band-Aids off quickly.

  “This?”

  “The whole soul-mate thing,” she explained patiently. “It’s not really for me.” The two men stared at her, this time in wide-eyed surprise, and Darcy waited without complaint for it to pass. Rays of mid-afternoon sunlight poured in through the windows, reflecting off Bucky’s metal arm, and Darcy raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jane sneaking glances in their direction.  

  “I’m sorry, I don’t –”

  “– Because I thought –”

  “Right.”

Darcy almost gaped, raised hand falling to her side. So that whole double-act, ride-or-die thing all the history books mentioned was actually true.

  “Is that why you’re not –?” Bucky nodded at her bare right arm.

  “– Thought she was having it cleaned or something.”

  “Guys.” Darcy interrupted as Jane’s gaze switched between the two men like a Wimbledon spectator (What? Living in London for a year had been even more fun than she’d thought it would be).  Who knew how long they’d do the dynamic duo-thing if she didn’t cut in now?

  “ _Mr Barnes, Mr Rogers –”_

  “Just a minute, J.A.R.V.I.S..” Though he never looked away from her, this time it was Steve who answered the butler, his words impatiently staccato. “What exactly does that mean?” His tone was commanding now, completely different to how it had been just a couple of minutes before. Darcy just knew that it was his _Captain America_ voice. Accordingly, something within her shifted too (because _fuck that_ if he thought she’d kowtow just because he’d used that voice), and her spine straightened further.

  “It means that I don’t plan on making your duo a trio,” Darcy quipped succinctly. She regretted it a moment later because those _blue, blue_ eyes visibly darkened with apparent hurt, while Bucky’s lips tightened, the only outward indication that he was affected. It went without saying that she hadn’t meant to hurt them. Lord knew, her whole anti-soul-mate thing had nothing to do with them whatsoever, but that didn’t change the fact that, wonderfully casual sex aside, she’d be staying solo indefinitely.

  “Huh.” If this had been any other day, Darcy might have laughed at Bucky’s apparent call-back to her and Jane’s earlier exchange, but it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. Bucky eyed her, his cheeks notably absent of that earlier rosy flush, as Steve’s hawk-like gaze seemed to focus on her every imperceptible move (imperceptible because the only moving Darcy was doing came as a result of trying to breathe very quietly through a slightly blocked nose). A faint squeaking sounded from across the room, and Darcy finally looked away from the two men to see Jane trying to discreetly wipe the already clean whiteboard.

Almost like an untrained puppy that had just peed all over the new carpet, Jane hadn’t the slightest clue of how to handle awkward situations, and Darcy had always loved her for it.

  “ _Mr Barnes, Mr Rogers_.” J.A.R.V.I.S.’ voice startled Darcy into a spastic jerk, though his voice was quieter than before. He’d clearly been doing a Jane and eavesdropping, though he was considerably better at it. “ _Ms. Romanov is insisting that you join the others in Mr Starks’s lab. She said that they have something they want you to look at, Mr Barnes_.”

A few tense seconds of silence before: “Tell her we’re headed up now.” With that, Bucky tipped Darcy a curt nod, strode stiffly past her and pressed the elevator call button. Steve hung around for just a moment longer, his eyes still on Darcy, before turning to where Jane stood by the practically sparkling whiteboard.

  “It’s good to see you, Jane,” he said to her with a tight, pained smile. “Darcy.” Steve added shortly, his acerbic tone practically burning off her eyebrows as he stepped right past her and into the elevator.

Heart doing a cruel double-dutch against her ribs, Darcy didn’t exhale until the elevator doors had closed.

  “ _Well._ ” Jane broke the silence, entering Darcy’s field of vision. “I don’t know how that could have gone any worse.” Darcy’s eyes narrowed disbelievingly.

  “Seriously? _Now_ you say something?”

Jane glanced over from where she was unpacking yet another box, clearly confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “You left me to the sharks!” Darcy cried dramatically, despite knowing that her argument was weak.

  “Hardly,” the other woman scoffed, removing a telescope lens from the almost-collapsing box. “And what does this have to do with me? They’re _your_ mates.”

  “But they know _you_. Didn’t you hang all night a few months ago at that – that ball thing?” Darcy was vague, waving a hand to indicate that she neither remembered (nor really cared about) the event she had in mind.

  “It was an FDNY fundraiser, and it was only for a couple of hours. We’re hardly best friends,” Jane replied patiently, practically stroking that ridiculous telescope lens. 

  “Beats never having met them at all.” Darcy pointed out, before continuing, “I don’t even want _one_ mate, let alone two. Oh, and did you miss the part where they’re Captain America and the _Winter fucking Soldier_? Fame by association is not for me, Jane! I’m sure I have a Past.” That was right - past with a capital ‘P’, and surely she couldn’t be the only one thinking this? To think that this morning she’d thought the biggest thing she’d be doing all day was moving into the Avengers Tower. In the time it had taken for a state-of-the-art elevator to climb sixty-odd floors, Darcy’s world had gone batshit insane.

  “Yes, well, my mate is the Norse god of thunder, so I’m sure I can relate.”

  “First of all, neither of you wears an S.I.D., so no offence, but we don’t know that for sure.” Darcy ticked off her fingers. “And second, it’s a completely different situation. You _chose_ to be with Thor. You didn’t have the government practically _force_ him on you.”

Jane rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “The inarguable issues with S.I.D.s aside, Thor _crash-landed_ on our truck. If that isn’t fate, or the government or whoever, pushing someone at me, I don’t know what is.”

  “That’s so irrelevant; I can’t even.” Darcy waved her off, slumping against the nearest stool with a sigh before continuing after a pause, “You kinda stepped on my head while I was drowning, Jane.”

  “A _Wedding Crashers_ reference in 2014, Darce? Really?” Jane was cuttingly disbelieving. For reasons Darcy (and anyone with taste) would never understand, her friend hated that movie.

  “It’s a modern classic!”

…

Melinda May, renowned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and woman of many talents, knew that her mate would have to be someone with undying patience, a good sense of humour and the ability to hold their breath for a minute or so at a time (mama had needs!). Nat, her good friend of several years, had often added that anyone who’d put up with Melinda for longer than a few hours at a time needed the patience of a saint and a high alcohol tolerance.

Making that comment during a high stakes Call of Duty session on their monthly game night cost Natasha the win when Melinda kicked her off the sofa.  

Unlike some agents, the fear of never getting to meet her mate didn’t keep her from taking the most dangerous missions, partly because she knew there was very little she couldn’t handle with Nat, Phil and his mate, Clint, at her side. She, Clint and Nat became infamous at S.H.I.E.L.D. for their ‘work hard, play hard’ mentality, cliché though it was.

The day Melinda went from being renowned to a legend was a hot one, one with a temperature high enough to blister. In the space of a few hours, her status was elevated at a cost so high only the fabled Winter Soldier could have afforded it. With Nat and the others on another mission, she had to ride in solo.

That day saw her nicknamed ‘The Cavalry’.

The funny thing was that when Melinda finally met her mate on a cold winter’s day a few months later, he was gorgeous as sin, a cocky, laughing, almost arrogant thing. The fact that they would have been a perfect match _if it weren’t for…._ didn’t escape her, and after telling him that she didn’t think it was going to work out ( _‘You’re not my type. Find someone else’_ ), she walked out of the coffee shop empty-handed, stomach giving several sharp twists.

Melinda allowed herself one glance back, only to turn away quickly, when she saw him standing stiffly in the line and gazing back at her, cheeks flushed a bright red that almost hurt to look at. She turned and walked away, her eyes painfully dry and heart as close to breaking as it could be after Bahrain.

That was the day Melinda handed in her active duty resignation notice and requested a desk job.

…

The next day, the pounding bass of Hot 97’s song of the day woke Darcy unceremoniously. Moaning tiredly, she inched out a hand and turned off her phone, cutting off the sound, before pulling the goose down quilt (Pepper had insisted. Darcy lived for her) back over her head. She was supposed to have been at breakfast as of twenty minutes ago, but despite her growling stomach, Darcy thought it far better to starve and remain in the safety of her room.

No one could call Darcy a wimp (not least because she’d lightly kicked people for less), but the thought of facing Steve and Bucky after what happened yesterday in the lab had her wondering if she could sneak out of the Tower to the nearest Mc’Ds without J.A.R.V.I.S. telling on her. Her chances were poor, though. J. might have love for Darcy, but Tony would always have his virtual heart, and her _presence at breakfast_ _had been requested_ by the billionaire (or more likely, Pepper) late last night.

At the thought of just the _word_ ‘breakfast’, her stomach gave up the ghost, grumbling loud enough to wake the walking dead.

_Ugh. FINE._

Mentally cursing the same individual that had brought two extra somethings in the elevator she’d only requested contain those damn boxes, Darcy dragged herself off her bed, barely avoiding falling to the floor. She half-stumbled across the room, shoving her sleep mask off her face and into the rat’s nest atop her head. Glancing at the clock on the far wall, she saw that it was almost ten o’clock. She’d undoubtedly receive a breakfast reminder courtesy of a certain electronic someone any minute now.  Even the notoriously, habitually late Jane might already be down there, which meant that she’d be walking in last.

Great. Just great.

Her only comfort was the way her room looked in broad daylight, with the sunlight streaming in through the one-way, floor-to-ceiling windows. With pine floorboards, a futuristic desk in the far corner where a new Stark Flat laptop sat, a large bed with billion thread count sheets and a purple quilt, a row of shelves and assorted paraphernalia, her room was gorgeous. Despite having seen the plans a month ago, Darcy hadn’t been able to believe her eyes when she’d moved in yesterday. Her room was bigger than her and Jane’s London ‘flat’, and she didn’t even know what the other Avengers did with their respective floors, because she had more than enough space and she only had half of one (she and Jane had decided to share).

Now in the small walk-in closet to the right of the en-suite bathroom, Darcy quickly put on a pair of track pants and a tank top before returning to her room, grabbing her phone, and walking out into the floor’s main hallway. She pressed the elevator call button and thankfully only had to wait a few moments for its arrival.

The floor had been split in half, with Jane and Darcy’s rooms at opposite ends. Thor, who was currently on Asgard, had his own floor, but Darcy was under no illusions that he’d be using it often now that Jane was living in the Tower. For that very reason, she’d begged Pepper to soundproof their rooms. Like she said, her time in London had taught her many things, one of which was that hot alien gods and their girlfriends were very, _very_ loud in bed.

Darcy stepped into the elevator, pressed the button to the communal floor and waited as the climb up the Tower began. Now that her stomach knew it was about to be fed, the growls subsided somewhat, allowing the nerves to crawl their way back in. But Darcy wasn’t having it. Swallowing hard, she booted them firmly out. She understood why Steve and Bucky were hurt – anyone in their position would be. She didn’t know how long they’d been waiting for her (though she knew Bucky couldn’t have received his until at least eight months ago when the Avengers had announced that he’d survived his famous fall, sending shockwaves across the world), but she didn’t doubt that being turned down by one’s mate was hardly pleasant.

She understood all of this, and she empathised with them, but that didn’t mean that she would allow anyone to try make her feel bad about her choices. Besides, if they didn’t respect that then, rejection or no, they weren’t the people for her anyway.

With this renewed sense of purpose, Darcy strode out confidently when the elevator dinged open. The communal floor stretched before her, decorated in a tasteful yet functional manner with large comfortable-looking couches, glass coffee tables with reinforced steel legs, assorted electronics and other creature comforts. Beyond, sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which displayed a billion-dollar-view of Manhattan.

Voices were clearly audible, and remembering the layout from the first time she visited, Darcy took an immediate left, and walked the short distance to where the large door-less entrance to the kitchen lay. She paused a moment to take a breath before continuing into the room, back straight and head held high.

The pine and stainless steel kitchen was expansive and clearly designed to accommodate several larger-than-life personalities. A large rectangular glass-topped table, with long, booth-like benches on either side, took pride of place at the centre of the room, and seated around it were Darcy’s new housemates.

Tony Stark, proud owner of the Tower, was paying more attention to the Stark Flat tablet in his hand than he was the smoothie in front of him, while Natasha Romanov, who was even more beautiful in real life, devoured a stacked plate of pancakes. Beside her, a craggy-faced man juggled grapes before swallowing each one. Darcy spotted Jane, who was chattering away quite loudly to a lean, messy-haired man with distinct worry lines. It was the trio at the far end that had Darcy’s attention, though. Next to a good-looking African American man with an infectious smile were Steve and Bucky, the latter of whom was eyeing his assorted fruit with disinterest. As Darcy watched, he swapped his plate with Steve’s, who didn’t even seem to notice, continuing his conversation with the smiling man.

  “Darce!” Jane called, drawing Darcy's focus away from her intended mates. When it also drew the attention of the others, Darcy was thankful that she hadn’t been caught looking. Mixed messages were something she just couldn’t do.

  “Lewis.” Tony glanced up from his tablet, shrewd gaze taking all of her in at once. “Pull up a chair - colloquially speaking, of course.” Rolling her eyes good-naturedly and carefully not looking in _their_ direction, Darcy sat beside Jane, who had shuffled down the bench to make room. “Where were you last night? We had pizza,” Tony continued, eyes once again on his tablet where his deft fingers moved at lightning speed.

  “I was beat. Went straight to bed,” Darcy answered, and with a smile of gratitude, she took the plate Jane handed her that was loaded with pancakes and sugar-dusted strawberries (just how she liked them). Eager to prevent a return of the growlies, she dug in and almost released an orgasmic moan at the deliciously sweet, slightly buttery taste.

  “Hey.” At Natasha’s greeting, Darcy smiled at her as widely as was possible with a mouth full of some of the best pancakes she’d ever had. Natasha had a famously husky voice; one most couldn’t achieve even with a sixty-a-day habit. With her own squeaky tones, Darcy might have hated her for it if the redhead hadn’t dropped several _Tron_ references the first time they’d met.

  “Lou-Lou!” An excited voice called from across the table, and knowing its owner, Darcy only just kept herself from kicking out. Lord only knew who she might hit by accident, and that was definitely no way to introduce oneself.

She found Clint’s beaming face and narrowed her eyes at him, chewing furiously. “Fuck you, Barton,” she replied once she’d swallowed, but he just cackled loudly in answer. Darcy still hadn’t forgiven him for that whole iPod thing a few years ago, and the World’s Greatest Marksman (patent pending) revelled in that knowledge. He was like the pain-in-the-ass older brother she’d never wanted.

When he’d visited Thor in London last year, he and Darcy had pulled prank after prank on one another before eventually calling a truce. Irritatingly, though, Barton had had the last laugh. Playing the long game, he'd added trace amounts of a special green hair dye to her entire shampoo supply, which meant that she hadn’t noticed its effects until a few days after he’d flown back to the States.  Erik, the callous traitor, had forwarded Barton a photo of the shambles that was her hair, and the marksman had posted it on Facebook for the world to see.

Darcy’s pride demanded retribution (which she would have, don’t you worry), and until she got it, he was persona non grata.

  “Hi.” The lean, dark-haired man beside Jane interrupted her thoughts of revenge, leaning across the tiny woman with a welcoming smile. “I’m Bruce.”

  “Hey.” Darcy smiled, holding out her hand, at which he looked almost surprised before reaching across with his and shaking her hand, his smile widening almost imperceptibly. Darcy wasn’t stupid. She knew who he was, and she also knew why he hadn’t sought a handshake until she’d initiated it.

People could be such dicks.

His smile seemed almost irrepressible now. “That’s Sam over there,” he pointed at the African American man who nodded at her with a wide smile (and who Darcy now recognised as the Falcon), “and that’s Bucky and Steve.” Darcy knew he was introducing them to be polite. Thanks to history class, everyone and their mothers knew who those two were. The two men sent her small smiles, and Darcy thought that if you hadn’t known what had gone down the previous afternoon, you would never have been able to guess.

  “We met yesterday,” Darcy answered automatically, before remembering just what had happened at said meeting, and shutting her mouth quickly before anything else escaped. Unfortunately, Tony had an infamous radar for such things, and he instantly looked up from his tablet, peering around the table like a meerkat.

  “Oh? Was this before or after you were too ‘beat’ to join us for pizza?” he asked, feigning offense and mock-glaring at the two super soldiers seated at the opposite end of the table. Then he frowned, adding, “Wait a minute.”

Darcy’s heart dropped.

“Weren’t you supposed to be…”

Oh, God. A look of realisation dawned on Tony’s face, stretching it vertically and making his goatee look even more comical than ever, though Darcy was too on edge to laugh.

_And. Here. We. Go._

  “Oooh.” Tony stretched out the vowel far longer than strictly necessary. Bucky visibly stiffened, while Steve focused almost painfully on his plate of fruit. “Well, _this_ is uncomfortable,” Tony added almost gleefully, because he _just didn’t know when to shut up_. Darcy felt murderous for the second time in as many days.

  “So, are we going to talk about this, because I’ve been told that such tension isn’t conducive to – Ow!” Tony cried as Jane prodded him sharply with the blunt end of her knife.

The table fell agonisingly silent. Though she was unashamed, Darcy’s appetite had left out of the nearest exit and caught a train. Meanwhile, Nat’s brows were almost at her hairline, and Clint’s eyes were doing the Wimbledon match thing. Darcy hadn’t even looked at the others.

Well. As Jane had said yesterday, there was _that._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank all of you enough for reading, commenting and kudo-ing (:D). It's truly astounding how well this has been received. This is my first fic for this fandom (I wrote HP fanfic for almost a decade), so I was really nervous, and I couldn't have been welcomed more warmly.
> 
> Thank you so much.
> 
> Please note that this work is un-betaed, and I will probably return and correct it throughout the day (after I've had some sleep. I've only slept three hours in the last forty-eight). Errors always glare out at you after you've gone away and returned to look at a piece of work. 
> 
> I've tentatively changed the story's status so that it's part of a series because I have so many ideas for its numerous characters that I think having different instalments would work best. I already have another instalment in mind that takes place before, during and after this fic, but I won't post it until after I'm done with TBP (because spoilers!).
> 
> Some of you might dislike Ms Lewis at this point, but let me assure you that she does have several good reasons for not wanting to be part of the S.I.D. movement. They will be revealed in good time, and besides, nothing good ever came easy. 
> 
> And while they might be a little long in coming, happy endings are a guarantee with me. Life is miserable enough without a few here and there, so I do what I can. :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr --> http://thebirdoffire.tumblr.com


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy has her first day at Columbia and another awkward encounter involving that damn elevator....

**III**

 

 

“A child educated only at school is an uneducated child.”   
― George Santayana

 

* * *

 

 

Dr. Jemma Simmons, the wunderkind of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s esteemed research division, had studied the S.I.D. program in depth and was one of the foremost experts on the soul-mate phenomenon. Indeed so respected was she in the field that her doctorate thesis on the matter was considered one of the most comprehensive works on the subject and was required reading for students of genetics and bio-chemistry.

For this very reason, she had always greatly looked forward to meeting her destined one. She was convinced that they would be someone who shared her passion for the subject, because who else would the ‘universe’ (read: her genetic code) partner her with?

A year after she earned her first Ph.D., she was recruited for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Academy of Science and Technology. When her S.I.D. arrived a mere three days later on her eighteenth birthday, Jemma hoped that the six years, five months and fourteen days’ wait she had meant that she’d meet her mate at the Academy.

Jemma graduated from the Academy three years early with a new best friend and another Ph.D. to her name. No soul-mate, though.

She wouldn’t meet him until they bumped into each other on a brand new airbus three years later, having both been recruited to a new elite team under a not-so-dead Phil Coulson.

  “Grant. Grant Ward,” he introduced himself, dark brows shadowing his grave eyes.

…

Darcy slammed the drawer shut in frustration. Where was it? She could have _sworn_ she’d dumped her phone on her bedside table before falling asleep, but clearly she hadn’t because she’d spent the last ten minutes looking for it like a lost duckling.

And the comparison was more than apt. There was very little Darcy loved more than her extra limb.

An assortment of clothes, pens, folders and make-up items now littered the formerly spotless floor, and Darcy was nearing the end of her tether. It was the first day of her Political Science MA course at Columbia, and showing up late just wouldn’t work for her. _That_ would teach her to stay up until the ass-crack of dawn playing Call of Duty with Nat (though it _had_ allowed her to spend half the night raining down tortilla chips onto Clint’s hair. He’d left looking like the _before_ of a Head  & Shoulders commercial).

 _Great_ , Darcy thought. _Been living in the A Tower less than a week, and you’re already losing your shit_. Any other day would have seen her add a _literally_ and giggle uncontrollably to herself. Sadly, it wasn’t any other day.

She continued her search for a few more minutes, messing up her room even more, and was about to give up and head for the elevator, when a voice sounded from overhead.

  “ _Miss Lewis, Miss Foster requests your presence in her lab._ ” J.A.R.V.I.S. aristocratic tone was even more soothing than usual, maybe because Darcy’s stress level was approaching the ceiling. She sat back on her heels, huffing a few times to cool her sweating forehead.

_Oh, fuck it._

Giving up the search as a lost cause, Darcy answered, “Be there in a sec, J.” With that, she adjusted her sundress, grabbed her bag and trudged through the mess on her floor and into the elevator J. had so kindly called for her.

What could Jane possibly want? Darcy just hoped the scientist makes it quick, because she was late enough as it was.

When she exited through the sliding steel doors, she was surprised to see a fluffy-haired scientist perched beside her former boss. Though working with Bruce (and Tony) was one of the reasons Jane moved into the tower, bringing Darcy with her (thank God, because rent in the city was a _bitch_ and nothing beat living in the lap of luxury free of charge), the Three Scienteers (as Darcy had taken to calling them) had only used Tony’s expansive basement lab thus far.

  “What’s up, boss lady?” Darcy asked breathlessly, making her way over to where a chocolate-haired head was bent over the telescope. When Jane didn’t respond, Bruce nudged her, and Darcy gave him a quick smile of thanks as the other woman glanced up.

  “Huh?”

  “You rang?” Darcy reminded patiently. Jane’s brows furrowed in confusion, but Darcy thought nothing of it. The female scientist was often forgetful about things she deemed unimportant (food, sleep, equipment she’d _just_ asked Darcy to hand her) when she was working.

  “No, I didn’t.” And to be fair, Bruce also looked mildly confused.

  “But I did!” Darcy jumped as a smug, annoyingly familiar voice came from behind her and hands landed on her shoulders. She whirled around to see dancing dark eyes and a goatee that Lucifer would wear proudly.

  “For fuck’s sake, Tony.” Darcy shrugged off his hands, irritated. _Of course_. Tony was the only person J. would outright lie for. She didn’t have time for Tony’s games today, though.

But the inventor was unperturbed, and a moment later, Darcy almost lost her hastily-eaten breakfast bar when he spun her back around and plopped her down on the nearest stool.

  “What in the _entire fuck,_ Stark?” Darcy shrieked, vision slightly blurred. She was slightly grateful that he’d sat her down, though she didn’t doubt that he’d only done so because he knew she was _this close_ to kicking him in the shins and taking off for the elevator.

What? It was just the _one time_.

As her senses righted, Tony hopped onto the countertop beside her. “So, you and the Wonder Twins.” Tony’s smarmy grin was toothy, wide and irritating as fuck. “What’s the story, morning glory?”

Darcy rolled her eyes, turning away in irritation. “Oh my God.” A familiar chrome and plastic rectangle dangled in front of her, but was snatched away when she tried to reach for it. She was going to _kill him_. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, _yes_ ,” Tony answered gleefully. “Answer my questions and you get your phone back. You have a missed call from Ian, by the way. Whoever that is.”

  “ _OMT,_ I _hate_ you sometimes,” Darcy bit out through gritted teeth, ignoring his last words. Even more irritating than the beaming Tony were Bruce and Jane who had returned to their work and were being _absolutely useless._ Darcy would have to come up with something far worse, because death was too good for them.

  “What happened? What’s going on?” Tony asked excitedly, dark eyes wide with curiosity. “Telling me everything is the price you must pay to continue staying in my tower.”

  “Yeah, no,” Darcy scoffed, brow raised in disbelief. “Besides, I think Pepper would have something to say about that.” Tony murmured something that she couldn’t quite make out.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, oh Taser-happy one.  Tell me what happened.” Tony’s habit of quickly changing the subject would have confused a lesser soul, but Darcy wasn’t a _lesser anything._ She was about to kick his shin anyway and make for the elevator ( _yes,_ without her phone), when Tony started with the puppy-eyes, and while she had very little time for morbid curiosity, _genuine_ curiosity was something she could rarely see go unsatisfied – in herself or others.

That and excellently executed puppy dog-eyes were her Kryptonite (which Tony knew; damn him to Hell).

  “There’s nothing much to tell.” Darcy bluffed. “We met, their timers went off, I told them I wasn’t interested – end of story.” Tony’s eyes narrowed in disbelief.

  “Yeah, _no_ ,” he mimicked her earlier rebuff. As Darcy _just_ kept herself from fidgeting nervously, she spotted Jane glancing up from her telescope out of the corner of her eye.

  “That _is_ essentially what happened,” Jane offered, but it was too little too late.

  “ _Essentially_ means that there’s more to the story.” Tony raised the _precious_ out of reach when Darcy tried to grab for it. At 5’10”, he was one of the shortest male Avengers, but he was still several inches taller than Darcy, something he now used to his advantage.

  “There really isn’t.” Darcy tried to convince him.

  “ _There really is_. First of all, no one just rejects their mate offhand like that, so there must be something going on there.” Tony ticked off his fingers with the phone still in his wretched grasp. “Second, they’re Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Most people would squeal like stuck pigs at just the _thought_ of being paired off with them.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not most people.” Darcy replied bluntly. When Tony continued to look unconvinced, Darcy continued, “I like at least the _illusion_ of having a choice when it comes to who I’m going to spend _the rest of my life with_.”

  “Choice? S.I.D.s aren’t Netflix queues, Darcy.” As Tony collapsed with laughter at his own ridiculous joke, Darcy snatched her phone from his weakened grasp.

  “You’re calling me a car, Tony, and God help that goatee of yours if I’m late. Four words: Natasha. While you’re sleeping.”

…

As dark grey clouds settled in overhead and a breeze picked up strength, Darcy stepped into the large white Poli-Sci building, glad that Tony _had_ actually called her a car (though the delay _was_ his fault in the first place). There were only a few people he had a healthy fear of, and thankfully, Darcy had almost all of them in her phone book.

Around her, other students bustled about, the sounds of lively conversations, clacking heels and squeaking trainers echoing off the walls. Grateful that she’d paid attention during orientation, Darcy went up the first flight of stairs on her left and made her way down the hallway. She entered the lecture hall mere moments before the professor, who shrugged off his coat as Darcy darted up the stairs to the second-to-last row, where only a few other students were seated.

As the professor introduced himself, Darcy nodded at the few students she recognised from last Friday’s orientation and unpacked her folder and pens. The class settled in as ‘ _Dr Tolstoy – yes, spelt like that_ _Tolstoy’_ told them of what they’d be doing over the next few months, turning occasionally to write pertinent points on the whiteboard.

About twenty minutes into the lecture, the doors swung open and a tall man in jeans and a white Henley sauntered in. He nodded nonchalantly at the professor and bounded up the steps, dropping himself into the seat beside Darcy and sending a waft of sandalwood and – yes, _smoke_ , in her direction. Other than a designer wallet, he didn’t have anything with him. A couple of girls turned back to eye him (not that she could blame them. He was admittedly _gorgeous_ ), and he returned their looks of appreciation with a wink and slanted smile.

Darcy turned away, unimpressed. Good-looking he might be, but there was nothing that turned her off faster than incorrigibility – a quality she suspected he had in spades.

As if sensing her disdain, Tall, Blond and Handsome glanced over at her, blue eyes alighting on her form. Darcy looked back to see that his grin had widened, the fluorescent light reflecting off his perfect teeth like he was in a freaking Crest commercial.

TBH looked somewhat familiar, but before Darcy could try to place him, the lights suddenly dimmed, and she looked over at the whiteboard to see that Tolstoy was now using the projector.

  “Hey,” a whisper came from her right. Darcy ignored it, gaze fixed on the professor.

  “Hey.” It came again. This time the guy in front of them glanced back with a frown, though he turned back quickly when TBH did something Darcy didn’t catch. The kerfuffle was enough to have her turning back to Blondie, whose grin was as irrepressible as ever.

  “What?” she asked coldly. Rather than turn him off, her tone only seemed to make him even more interested, if his now full-out grin was any indication. Darcy was pissed. It had always worked to such great effect in the past.

  “Who are you and where do I sign up?”

  “Excuse me?” Darcy was incredulous.

TBH leaned over and glanced at her student ID. As he did so, his right arm _casually_ made its way into her personal desk space, and she saw that it was as bare as his left. No S.I.D.

Here’s when most people would have asked what was up, but Darcy wasn’t most people.

Not to mention that Darcy couldn’t have given _two steaming shits._

“Darcy,” TBH announced triumphantly, those blue eyes fixed on hers in a way that made her skin itch admittedly not uncomfortably. The likeness they bore to another set she’d seen just last night at dinner had her frowning, though.

 _Nope. Not going there_.

  “What do I have to do to ―”

  “Not even _if_ , dude,” she answered cuttingly. As he leaned even closer in, he clearly wasn’t deterred, though he widened his eyes in feigned hurt. As well as that sandalwood-and-smoke scent, a strange heat radiated off him, warming Darcy’s forearm.

  “But you don’t even know what I was about to say. What if I ―” he said teasingly. Darcy scoffed. _Please_.

  “Not even _then._ ” With that, she turned pointedly back to the whiteboard where Tolstoy was still chattering away. A moment later, she felt TBH withdraw, though his gaze didn’t, and Darcy could have sworn she felt two points of actual heat boring into the side of her head.

The class continued without interruption, and it wasn’t until a familiar noise sounded at the window that Darcy’s focus wandered. A constant _pitter-pattering_ was coming from the glass pane, and Darcy looked over to see that the grey clouds had given up being ominous along with their heavy load.

Outside it had started to rain.

…

It was still raining when she stepped out into the busy street, the moisture in the air lifting the smell of car fumes and smog, leaving behind a clean, fresh scent. The pelting rain itself, however, kept Darcy from appreciating it, and she lifted her bag above her head as droplets of water hit her bare arms.

Cars and buses sped past her, the sound of their horns softened by that of the falling rain. Darcy had always appreciated the rain, had always loved how it seemed to dull the aural sense even as it sharpened almost everything else. While it hadn’t rained in London nearly as much as she’d thought it would, she’d definitely missed the English storms since coming to New York.

Her sandaled feet hit the pavement as she hurried down the crowded sidewalk, wondering if she could justify getting a cab back to A Tower. She went back and forth about it for a short while, but when a bright flash tore its way across the sky and was followed almost immediately by a boom of thunder, she walked-slid to the edge of the sidewalk, soggy sandals impeding her progress, and hailed a cab, collapsing thankfully onto the cracked leather seat.

Darcy reached the looming A Tower twenty minutes later, and after paying the driver, ran as quickly as she could into its steel-and-glass embrace. The main reception was blessedly warm, a balm to her freshly-chilled arms, and Darcy’s sandals made wet footprints on the polished marble floor as she made her way to the elevator. She entered with a group of suited professionals into the already crowded metal box and pressed the button for the penthouse’s communal floor, wanting to grab something to eat before she went to tell Jane of her day.

As the elevator climbed its way up all that glass, concrete and steel, it gradually emptied until Darcy could actually breathe. Wanting to see just how much damage the storm had done her, she turned to look in the elevator’s mirrored back, only to spin back around at the sight of a certain tussle-haired man in a hooded tracksuit.

 _Fuck_.

It wasn’t that she, Steve and Bucky had avoided one another over the last few days. It wasn’t even that they’d been rude to her when they _had_ come into contact at meals and such. No, you couldn’t fault their manners. But they hadn’t been warm either – not that she could blame them.

 _Please_ and _thank you_ s aplenty, an _excuse me_ every now and again, a couple of _could you pass the potatoes/eggs/pancakes_ -‘cold but polite’ is how she would put it.

It made for a few uncomfortable moments, though nothing she could complain about. After all, she _had_ been the one to turn them down when they had every reason to expect a willing mate. She didn’t regret her choice, but she couldn’t blame them either.

Still. Not the most comfortable set-up.

And now here was the dark-haired half of the dynamic duo. In a six-by-ten metal box that was emptying by the minute and would soon contain only the two of them.

_Darcy Lewis, This Is Your Life._

The elevator dinged once more as its doors open, letting another few people out onto R&D. They were now only a handful of people left, and Darcy swore she could feel eyes boring into the back of her skull.

Maybe she should say something now, just head to the back of the lift and have a quick word with him. Yes. Now that he’d had time to cool down she could try and soothe any hurt feelings, explain again that it wasn’t personal, that she _had her reasons_.

_And what if he asks what they are, Darcy?_

_Ding!_

The lift was now empty as it continued on its way. Darcy’s fingernails dug sharply into her palms as she tried to psych herself up to _take that step back_.  She’d never been the type to shy away from _anything_ , so why was this so fucking hard? She’d faced far worse and emerged unscathed! This was ridiculous!

_78_

_79_

_80_

Her breathing was the only sound in the hushed elevator. It was almost like he didn’t even need to take in oxygen, because she couldn’t hear a damn thing coming from him.

_83_

_84_

Okay. She was just going to turn around and ―

_DING!_

She heard footsteps behind her, and a moment later, soft cotton brushed past her as Bucky stepped out of the elevator.

  “Darcy,” he said quietly, the flirtatious tone he’d used less than a week ago during their first meeting missing once again. She caught a glimpse of grey-green eyes as he glanced briefly in her direction before the doors slammed shut.

Unimpressed by her own stupidity, Darcy huffed and took a step back, slumping against the back of the elevator as it rose towards the communal floor.

Yeah. Fuck.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shortest chapter yet, but this will also be the shortest chapter in this fic. Sorry for the delay - I had to move for the summer. Chapters will be posted weekly again from now on.
> 
> I have an idea of where the story is going and how it will end. I've planned up to chapter eight, and I can already tell that it's going to be longer than 30K. 
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying it so far. I know a couple of people thought Darcy was being a little unfair, but I promise you, she does have her reasons for doing what she did - good ones. 
> 
> As for the TSOS series: I've got ideas for several other instalments, though I don't want to reveal the pairings just yet. I WILL say that I will be writing a 15-20k Bucky/Steve story after this is finished about their life pre-Darcy (so mainly post-CATWS. It will involved Bucky's recovery and the start of their relationship).
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think, and I'll see you all next week (or maybe even later this week, who knows?).
> 
> (N.B. This work is still un-betaed, and I will probably return throughout the day to correct it - as usual).


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy sees a great (if she does say so herself) idea of hers come to fruition and she bumps into someone somewhere she never expected to see them...

**IV**

 

 

“I like a man who's good, but not too good - for the good die young, and I hate a dead one.” 

― Mae West

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing the success of the S.I.D. program and the benefits touted by various western governments, parts of the developing world sought to realise their own version. However, the technology was costly, and more often than not, developing countries lacked the infrastructure needed to create, distribute and track the S.I.D.s.

As the right to locate and marry one’s soul-mate was fast becoming considered a basic right, the UN (in conjunction with various charities and governments) organised the Save Your S.I.D. Initiative, which encouraged those who had found their mates  to return their timers to their respective governments who would then pass them on to developing countries. It was the creation of the timers themselves that was expensive, you see. Reprogramming them cost next to nothing.

As a result of the SYS Initiative (which saw donors receive a small payment in exchange for their S.I.D.s), over 93% of timers found second homes on the wrists of those who would never have otherwise received them.

Of course there were advantages to keeping one’s S.I.D - though they were arguably terrible ones. Knowing the moment your mate died, for example.

It calls to mind the case of one Virginia “Pepper” Potts, who donated her timed-out S.I.D. mere weeks before her mate went missing.

…

What she had since dubbed the Elevator Moment was one of the last times Darcy and Bucky were alone for some time. With her increasing work schedule thanks to Columbia and her continued ‘work’ with Jane (which admittedly only involved fetching cups of coffee and ensuring she, Tony and Bruce ate at reasonable hours), not to mention the clear desire by every supervillain within a thousand mile radius to prove their mettle against the Avengers, the inhabitants of the Tower rarely got to eat breakfast together as they had her first day there.

Darcy barely even got a moment to think about it though. Whilst living in the Tower had huge advantages, it also came with paps parked outside both exits on a daily basis and a case of Who Will Attack Manhattan Next, a game Tony and Darcy had set up to take ridiculous advantage of one another. So far, Darcy had won a pair of Louboutins and Dolce sunglasses, but she’d failed to convince Tony to put one of his cars up – so far. She continued to live in hope.

Something that had become glaringly obvious to Darcy in the six odd weeks she’d been living in the Tower was the tense relationship the Avengers had with the press. While Tony admittedly continued to enjoy his love-hate relationship with the press, but the other Avengers by and large weren’t faring as well. In the two years since the Battle of New York, the press had been allowed to come up with their own narrative, and while the public had initially sided with the six people who had narrowly saved the world from a megalomaniac’s rule, their general absence from the limelight since and the infamous fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. had led to the current distrustful atmosphere. The leak of previously classified material and the story it told of the pasts of people like the Black Widow certainly hadn’t helped matters, and the public seemed more torn about her than any of the other Avengers.  

After seeing the way Natasha was being discussed in the media and on Twitter, as well as the general mistrust the public had of the Avengers and their purpose in a post-S.H.I.E.L.D. world (‘fruit from the poisonous tree’ was the way much of the older population viewed the team), Darcy had taken her case to Tony (Pepper would have been her first port of call, but she was still in Tokyo hammering out a deal), charts and polls in hand.

Showing him comparisons between how the Fantastic Four and the Avengers were viewed by the public and reported on by the press, she’d pushed for a greater team presence on social media, arguing that they’d be better off if they tried to get ahead of stories before the media, and that even just a carefully managed Instagram account would endear them to those they sought to protect. The Avengers Initiative, Darcy believed, was made considerably harder without the public’s trust.

Tony had briefly looked over the information she’d brought him, before waving a hand in her direction and returning to banging away at his new suit. Rolling her eyes, Darcy had headed to class and resolved to bring up the issue again when things worsened (which they inevitably would, she was sure). But she’d returned to the Tower to find that Tony had discussed it with the others, who had agreed to the hiring of a PR team, and to Darcy’s surprise, to putting her in charge of handling social media for the team.

Darcy’s first move had been to set up an Instagram account for the team (@AvengersTower), posting three photos on the first day - all of which scored thousands of likes in mere minutes. Tony had been quick to take over his poorly managed Twitter account, tweeting anything that crossed his mind without anything even approaching a filter. Quick to follow his example was Clint, who posted selfies of him hanging out in ridiculous places to his ‘private’ Instagram account – @IntheAirVents.

Darcy got her second great idea (if she did say so herself) after watching that idiot Bill O’Reilly rant about the Avengers’ vigilante status, claiming that the fact that they didn’t answer to anyone was the very reason why they shouldn’t be trusted.

  “ _They don’t have to abide by the same laws as the rest of us. Who’s going to tell a Norse god that he can’t knock down a building or hold two American legends to account for killing someone – justifiably or not?”_

Much as Darcy hated him (and oh, did she _hate_ him), she had to admit that Old Billy had a point. With S.H.I.E.L.D. gone (even as corrupt as it had turned out to be),  part of the reason the public had grown to mistrust the Avengers was due to the fact that they had no overseer. Comprised mostly of super-humans (and one essential god), in theory, the team didn’t _have_ to answer to anyone. Their choosing to protect people was viewed as just that – a choice, and if they went rogue, there would be very few on Earth who could stand up to them.

If only for appearances sake, there needed to be an authoritative body to whom the Avengers should have to answer.

The answer came to her one unseasonably warm day in late October. Maria Hill (who had become one of Darcy’s girl crushes after she met the Deputy Director in London) paid an impromptu visit to the Tower to inform Tony that she was leaving Stark Enterprises to restore S.H.I.E.L.D. with a carefully selected few, and the proverbial light bulb appeared above Darcy’s hat-clothed head.

She’d blurted out her idea to a startled Maria, Tony and Natasha, who had looked at her like she’d finally cracked.

But now, almost four weeks on from that day, her plan was finally seeing fruition. _Well_ , Darcy thought, as Tony hissed another insult in his opponent’s direction, _in theory, at least._ It was such a shame too. Darcy had been so proud of her Slushie Brainchild (she’d been sugar-high on one at the time of its inception).

On that fateful day in October, Darcy had realised that the introduction of a new overseer for the Avengers wouldn’t be enough. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been in force for over half a century and it had still fallen within a day, a victim of its own corruption, leaving the Avengers open to (admittedly valid) criticism and mistrust. Darcy’s SB wasn’t about having a lack of faith in her house-mates. She lived with them on a daily basis, and knew them in a way most would never be able to. But it was because of that that she also knew why a significant enough percentage of the public didn’t hold much faith in the team. They didn’t have that same privilege. They didn’t get to see Clint stumble half-asleep into the kitchen to steal Bruce’s Greek yoghurt, or play Call of Duty until three a.m. with Tasha, or fight over the last slice of pizza with Tony. All they knew of the team was what they heard on the news, and while their new presence on social media had gone some way to tempering that, it could only do so much. The public needed to feel that there were safeguards in place that would prevent the team from going Loki (or Doom and company) on them, and the best way to do that would be to introduce a sort of checks-and-balances system.

So, the return of S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be enough. In that moment, it had occurred to Darcy that the only people who could arguably keep superheroes in check were _other superheroes_. If a committee could be formed consisting of the biggest and baddest heroes around, if they could be seen to be working together for the greater good and with the purpose of keeping themselves in check, the public could be convinced that there’d be less of a chance that any given team would fall victim to infighting or corruption, leaving the world vulnerable to attack.

The team and Director Hill had had to discuss it among themselves, bringing in Pepper via Skype, but they’d eventually agreed that it seemed like the best idea going forward. That was only the beginning though, and it had taken considerable coordination and several tense meetings (between Tony and Reed Richards, who couldn’t _stand_ each other) before Maria had finally managed to convince the Fantastic Four (in Tony’s absence) and key members of the X-Men to attend today’s event.

Darcy silently watched in half-amusement and half-despair as Reed and Tony threw more shade at one another than a Redwood. If she were any less _ain’t shit_ , Darcy was sure she’d be recording the entire thing to post on YouTube later. From her seat on the same side of the table as the Fantastic Four, Clint and Natasha, Darcy couldn’t see the other three members of Reed’s team, but she could hear the soft tones of his fiancée, Sue, as she tried to restore order. On the other side of the rectangular table were Steve, Bucky, a well-dressed older gentleman in a wheelchair, a beautiful woman with even redder hair than Natasha, a regal black woman with snow-white hair and a sneering Tony. Director Hill stood at the front of the room, wearing a suit and a long-suffering expression.

  “I can’t even _pretend_ to have time for you, Richards.” Tony effectively dismissed the other man, his focus now on his StarkPhone.

  “Wasn’t this whole thing _your_ idea, Stark?” was Reed’s retort. Not about to let that misapprehension pass, Darcy was just about to correct him when Maria beat her to it.

  “No, it wasn’t,” the Director informed him. “It was Ms Lewis’.” While everyone in the room turned to look where Maria was pointing (right at Darcy, who _just_ managed to keep from sinking down into her chair, because, _hello_ , bring attention to yourself, but only on your own terms), she continued, “And it was a good one - one that clearly impressed you all enough to bring you here, Mr Richards.”

Reed settled back into his chair, but as Darcy heaved a sigh relief, thinking they could finally get back down to business (and thank God, because due to Reed and Tony, the meeting was already going on three hours, and now _Scandal_ was on in forty minutes, and she didn’t want to miss it), a familiar smirk crossed Tony’s evil face. Heart sinking, Darcy could only watch in horror as the billionaire muttered something clearly intended for only his opponent’s ears, and Reed’s face flushed so red it could have been used as a beacon from space. A painfully loud screech sounded in the boardroom as the Fantastic Four’s leader pushed back his chair and leapt up. While almost everyone around made moves to keep him from jumping a still-smirking Tony, and the room quickly descended into bedlam, Darcy mentally took notes as Reed made a huffy exit out of the nearest door, because _damn_ , was that a Hell of a way to storm out.

…

It took almost twenty minutes for things to calm down, by which time Darcy had retreated to a comfy chair in the waiting room outside. She happily tapped away at her StarkPad, resolving to watch Olivia Pope and her gang of merry men rule Washington on it, if need be.

The sudden absence of shouting caught Darcy’s attention, and on briefly glancing through the glass walls of the boardroom, she saw that everyone was rising from their chairs, with some already heading towards the door.

 _Finally_.

The white-haired woman was the first to exit, her heels click-clacking across the pine floors as she breezed past Darcy, who shrank back, though not out of fear. Sheer power seemed to radiate off the woman, the kind Darcy had only previously felt coming off Thor and his Asgardian pals, and it was somewhat daunting being that up-close to someone who could probably take him in a fight.

The red-head was next, closely followed by the man in sunglasses and a few others. Steve and Bucky were the next to step out, neither so much as glancing at her as they exited. Darcy was reminded yet again of that missed opportunity in the elevator, but what could she do now? She was just glad that they no longer seemed angry about the whole thing.

She’d take her blessings where she could find them.

Next were Clint and Tasha, both of whom were too engrossed in the paper the latter was holding to even notice Darcy. _Scandal_ ’s cold open started up, drawing Darcy’s attention, but before she could properly get into it, the almost silent swish of the boardroom’s glass door opening disturbed the peace, and Darcy looked up again (now somewhat _over it_ ) to see Director Hill stroll past her in a business-like fashion, followed closely by an occupied Tony and the three remaining members of the Fantastic Four. Ben Grimm and Sue Storm walked just behind Maria, the two women chattering away, while the third member of their team was hidden from view. However, as the group walked past Darcy, he came into view, and ―

_Well, fuck. me._

The guy from her class – _TBH_ – the one who had only shown up a handful of times since class started, appeared from just behind Sue Storm, and Darcy could have _kicked_ herself, because she’d _known_ he’d seemed familiar. As well he should. He featured on Page Six often enough.

Johnny Storm.

Not in the mood to humour him, and wanting to get back to _Scandal_ as soon as possible, Darcy did her best to shrink into the seat and hoped… and hoped…

  “Darcy!”

_For fuck’s sake._

Wishing she’d just taken her ass back upstairs when she’d had the chance, she vowed to watch _Scandal_ later and looked up to find the new bane of her existence towering over her. He was grinning widely, those _blue, blue_ eyes of his shining brighter than she’d ever seen them, and Darcy had to admit that his black leather jacket was definitely working for him.

The bastard.

  “Mystery guy,” Darcy answered, before mentally kicking herself as Johnny’s smile widened even further.

  “Mystery, huh?” That irritating laugh of his rang out in the hallway, drawing a certain Mr Stark’s attention. His meerkat impression made another appearance as Tony’s eyes darted between Darcy and Johnny, and his ears almost visibly perked up at the chance to compound her misery.

  “You two know each other?” Tony asked.

  “We have a class together,” Darcy reluctantly answered.

  “Oh, yeah. At Columbia, right?” Tony’s eyes shone, and he looked so proud of himself, Darcy didn’t even know what to say. Johnny just continued to smirk down at her as if he could see right through her clothes, and no matter what Down South might have said if it were asked, no, it was _not_ doing anything for her.

  “I didn’t know you were _that_ Darcy,” Johnny said, eyes now inquiring. Darcy raised a brow.

  “ _That_ Darcy?”

  “Clint’s mentioned you a coupla times,” he replied.

  “Fuck Clint.” Darcy was only half-joking at that point.

  “I certainly hope not. That’d make things harder for me.”

  “You _cannot_ be serious _.”_ Darcy couldn’t believe Johnny thought his act was charming. Had it _really_ worked for him in the past? If she were any less of a feminist, Darcy would have despaired of her gender.

To be honest, she felt inclined to do that anyway.

  “Johnny!” Sue called from the elevator, clearly having looked back to see her brother wasn’t where she’d last seen him, and Darcy watched in irritation as Johnny winked and took off.

Annoyingly enough, Darcy was too busy eyeing his ass to pay any mind to Tony’s rapid-fire questions.

…

When Darcy attended class the next day, Storm invited her to dinner at his place.

Before her wandering mind could process a ‘ _no_ ’, her traitorous mouth opened and gave him a _‘yes’._

Damn that ass of his and her four-month sex drought.

…

Refusing to allow him to think he’d completely gotten his way, Darcy wore her favourite _Yes-I-look-good-but-it-took-less-than-ten-minutes_ dress for her date with Johnny the next day.

She’d declined his invitation to pick her up from the Tower, knowing that he’d probably drive one of his famous cars to do so. Or God forbid, his motorbike. If Darcy had one weakness, it was for considerable horsepower and great bodywork. She’d need all of her wits about her, if she was going to keep up with him.

Instead, Darcy took a cab to his place in the Meatpacking District. She’d been somewhat surprised when he’d given her the address. Everyone and their great aunt knew the Fantastic Four resided in the Baxter Building, but Johnny had told her that he kept that apartment ‘for privacy’. He’d waggled his eyebrows shamelessly, and Darcy once again _couldn’t believe_ she’d agreed to this.

…

  “It’s taken us a long time to get here.” Johnny was somewhat gleeful as he sent a quick smile her way. Though much of his focus was on the various pots and pans on the hob, his body was still half-turned towards her, and he sent occasional searing looks her way. Darcy was reluctantly impressed by his technique. Judging by his reported track record, it clearly worked for him.

The apartment itself certainly helped matters. Though steel featured heavily, there were still large, cushy couches and a fireplace in the far corner of the living room, which just _screamed_ seduction. The kitchen took things a step further, looking surprisingly like that of an old farmhouse, and was warm and inviting.

  “You didn’t know who I was, did you?” Johnny was amused. Popping another grape in her mouth, Darcy eyed him.

  “Nope. Not a clue.”

He clutched at his heart with one hand, feigning distress, even as he stirred the sauce with the other, and laughed aloud when Darcy rolled her eyes. She couldn’t keep herself from laughing along _just a bit_ , though.

As he continued cooking (quite expertly, Darcy had to admit), the conversation eased, with Johnny making her laugh several times. He laughed at all his own jokes, which for whatever reason, started really working for her.

Annoying, yes, but also working.

What was also annoying, though even more of a turn-on, was the way he kept tasting the food. She _knew_ he was doing it on purpose – his sly sideways glances told every _noun_ and _verb_ of that story - and yet Darcy had seen that pink tongue of his darting around forks and spoons so often by the time the food was almost ready that, despite his purposefulness, she was more than done waiting for it and was up for something a little more satisfying.

The next time Johnny tasted the marinara sauce, letting out a shameless groaning sigh, Darcy was _done_.  With a quick hop off her stool, she had the momentum to push Johnny up against the nearest safe surface and crash her lips against his. It took less than a beat for him to catch on, and his mouth opened eagerly under hers.

They didn’t even make it to the bedroom.

By the time they got round to eating, the sauce was stone cold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologise enough for the two-month wait. My only excuse is that I was trying to get a headstart on my dissertation, and that took up so much of my time that I barely feel like I've had a holiday. My fingers are actually bruised from all the handwriting I've been doing (don't even ask. LOL. I find that the easiest way to learn notes is to write them out by hand, not type them out... so.. it's a whole thing).
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for all the reviews and the encouragement. I can promise that we'll get back to regularly scheduled updates from here on, with a chapter released every Thursday or Sunday.
> 
> I can only hope that you haven't lost all interest in my little tale.
> 
> With regard to this chapter, I know that some of you correctly identified TBH. I tried to hide a few clues here and there in III, so I'm glad they weren't too vague. :D
> 
> There will be more Bucky/Steve/Darcy interaction in the upcoming chapters, but again, this story will move somewhat slowly. I want to make the progression of theiir relationship as realistic as possible in the circumstances.
> 
> As ever, this is unbetaed, so I will be going back over this chapter over the next twenty-four hours and making corrections accordingly.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Natasha and Bucky spar, and Clint falls out of an air vent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this is unbeta-ed. All mistakes are mine.

**V**

 

 

“Inside every older woman is a young girl wondering what the hell happened.”   
― Cora Harvey Armstrong

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha blamed the Tower for her not having noticed that Darcy was regularly fucking someone sooner. Sure, on the surface, that might not make sense, but Natasha knew her reasoning was sound.

You see, it wasn’t as if Darcy was being particularly discreet about the whole thing. Though she never spent the whole night away from the Tower, even returning sometimes in the very early hours, she always looked – dishevelled, to put it nicely. Her hair was always in disarray, and Eternity for Men wafted off her like steam from a sauna. If it had been even a year or even a few months ago, Natasha would have realised that Darcy was engaging in regular coitus ( _snicker_ ) with the same person within a few days, but sadly it wasn’t. It had taken Nat a solid _week_ to clock what Lewis was up to – a fact that made the former Soviet spy both irritated and disgusted.

And this was where the Tower came in.

Natasha suspected that it was sleeping under a roof where her housemates weren’t actively trying to kill her that had made her soft.

That could not stand.

…

Once one found one’s soul-mate, the next step was registering with the state. At first, people were reluctant to, many just out of sheer laziness, but some out of the belief that it was simply a way for Big Brother to keep its eye on the public.

Realising this, the government was quick to launch new initiatives that saw registered soul-mates become entitled to certain tax benefits and parts of the welfare system that were off limits to those who either hadn’t registered or had yet to meet their soul-mate.

It wasn’t long before the number of registered soul-mates (RSMs) increased dramatically, with each couple or group being given identification and serial numbers.

The government argued that both existed only so they could keep track of how successful the initiative was proving to be.

...

A few weeks into Darcy’s ‘relationship’ with her _luvaaah_ , Natasha was sparring with Ja – _Bucky_ in the purpose-built gym on the 81st floor.  As their bare feet skipped across the mat covering the pine floorboards, the sharp sound of their staffs colliding echoed off the reinforced walls, Nat was reminded of how far her opponent had come. Time was that he couldn’t even leave Steve’s side, jumping at loud noises and screaming himself awake from nightmares even Natasha couldn’t imagine. Now he was, according to Steve, back to who he’d been before and during the war, though Bucky frequently said he was 80:20 on a good day, 60:40 on the (thankfully infrequent) bad ones.

The Winter Soldier still came out in battle, though, and for that very reason, Bucky was Natasha’s favourite sparring partner next to Thor. You didn’t become the World’s Greatest Assassin™ without being remarkably good at basic training exercises.

As Natasha was finding it easier than usual to hold her own, though, today seemed to be an exception. Reacting split-seconds slower, and having missed several easy shots, Bucky seemed a little off his game, and Natasha could guess why.

Darcy had only been living in the Tower for a few months, but she’d already turned it upside-down – unbeknownst to her. Having found their soul-mate after waiting so long, Bucky and Steve hadn’t been the same since they’d been unceremoniously turned down. Admittedly, they weren’t particularly obvious about it, but to anyone who knew them well enough…

Neither smiled as often, and Bucky rarely seemed to at all. And _his face_ when he’d first caught Darcy returning from one of her trysts; Natasha would never forget it.

Not that she blamed Darcy at all – no. Natasha of all people understood the value of being able to make one’s own choices, and was sure that part of what had really turned Darcy off was the knowledge that she’d be followed around by the press for the rest of her natural life, that every little move and decision would be judged and documented.

Natasha couldn’t stand the harsh, unforgiving glare of the spotlight most days and she’d actually signed up for it – in theory, anyway.

Those S.H.I.E.L.D. files hadn’t leaked themselves.

A few days after they’d first met, Natasha had tried asking Darcy why she didn’t wear a S.I.D., only to be rebuffed with rolled eyes and a flippant reply. It had been amusing enough to warrant the snicker she gave it, but also firm enough that she’d known not to ask again.

That’s when Darcy had earned Natasha’s respect. Anyone who could so delicately walk such a tightrope deserved it.

Unlike most, Natasha had also respected Darcy’s right not to wear an S.I.D. She hadn’t _understood_ it (wasn’t it what all normal people did? Natasha was sure of it), but she’d respected it. Someone who could withstand the looks Darcy got when she revealed that _no, she didn’t wear her S.I.D_. and _no, she hadn’t met her soul-mate yet_ , and _no, it_ wasn’t _because they were dead, to her knowledge_ was tough as Hell.

Natasha wasn’t sure if she herself could do it. So she got why Darcy had told ‘The Wonder Twins’ (Darcy’s words, not hers) no. Still, Steve and Bucky were her friends and she couldn’t help but feel for them.

  “ _Natashenka.”_ A blunt tone complemented the sharp _thwack_ of Bucky’s staff, dragging Natasha back to the well-lit gym. Mentally cursing, she rallied quickly, returning his offense with her own.

  “You’re distracted.” Bucky noted without losing a step, flyaway strands of hair escaping his neatly-tied bun and clinging to his sweaty face.

_One-two_

  “You’re one to talk,” Natasha replied breathlessly, ducking to avoid the sweep of his staff and then straightening to return the blow, only for her staff to meet his in mid-air. Bucky raised a dark brow as the two Avengers paused for a split-second, before returning to their highly-choreographed dance across the black vinyl of the practice mat.

They were silent for a moment, the only sounds in the gym being those of clashing staffs, practiced breathing and feet dancing over the mat, before: ‘Oh?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, James.” Natasha still hadn’t gotten used to calling him by the name so familiar to most Americans.

  “Pretty sure I don’t, Romanova.” In turn, he was the only one who ever used her correct Russian name. Call it a thing.

  “Ooh, last names!” Natasha whirled around and their staffs clashed in the air. “Shit just got real.”

Bucky huffed out a laugh, before replying, “Don’t sweat it.” Natasha was engrossed in trying to hold her own against a now refocused opponent, but she still managed a frown.

  “I could help you,” she offered, but Bucky looked unconvinced.

  “It’s me and Steve’s business,” he told her gently, his staff anything but as it swatted her distracted behind.

_Damn him._

  “Your business has always been my business, James,” she reminded him, _just_ dodging another expert sweep of his staff.

  “Not in this case.” Bucky’s tone warm but had an air of finality, and his moves had a renewed sense of purpose as he and Natasha continued their age-old dance across the mat.

…

Bobbi Morse, or Mockingbird to those who only knew _of_ her (but were still smart enough to fear her on mere principle), was the kind of woman no one wanted to cross. Loved by her friends and adored by the higher-ups for her high success rate, she was one of the few at S.H.I.E.L.D. who could rival the Natasha Romanova and Melinda Mays of the world.

By contrast, Lance Hunter was what Thor would call a ‘reprobate’, someone who had few moral qualms and would reportedly do anything for a well-made G&T (hold the ice) and a nice pile of cash. A former S.A.S. lieutenant, Hunter preferred the term ‘private military contractor’ as a job description, though those in impolite company often referred to him as The Mercenary.

Before they became renowned in their respective fields, however, Bobbi and Hunter were simply two young kids who fell in love months after their S.I.D.s went off in the middle of a busy Thai restaurant on the latter’s eighteenth birthday. Love might have been relatively long in coming, but sexual chemistry was something they had in _spades_ , with Hunter choosing to defer university entry for a year to run off to Maui with Bobbi.

Their six month-long trip became legend at S.H.I.E.L.D. years later, and some loved to talk about how ‘they _fucked_ their way across three continents’, but that would be _far_ too crass to discuss here.

It was a shame, then, that it wasn’t to last. After Hunter received one of the government’s Strategic Scholarships, created to financially support students who had found their soul-mates before attending university, he and Bobbi’s relationship turned out to not be long for this world. The two of them split five days into his first year at Exeter.

For the first time, that is.

Over the years, they reunited several times, becoming _the_ on-and-off couple of S.H.I.E.L.D., and becoming known for taking each other on any available surface, regardless of whether anyone was present or not.

When they weren’t on, they were loudly and bitterly _off_ , with the couple also being infamous for their lengthy arguments. Their fellow agents were quick to leave the room if possible, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire.  More often than not, the gravity of those arguments was later exaggerated by curious onlookers, so third parties knew better than to believe what they were told second or even third hand.

One thing that _was_ said but never actually repeated, however, was the following: ‘If we weren’t fucking soul-mates, we wouldn’t even –”

But that’s another story for another day.

After the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., both Bobbi and Hunter fell off the radar, choosing to remain in the shadows. Just before Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanova saw to the collapse of one of the largest security organisations on the planet, however, Bobbi met a scientist by the name of Jemma Simmons in the lab of an aircraft known as ‘The Bus’.

…

After she and Bucky came to a reluctant draw, Natasha headed up to the communal floor to grab something to eat. Engrossed in US Weekly (a guilty pleasure that featured a ‘ _Falcon in Steamy Love Triangle’_ headline on its cover), she exited the lift and was making her way to the kitchen when she was surprised ( _not_ startled) by a rush of warm air as a vent above her was pushed open. She reacted immediately, rolling up her magazine and hurling it upwards into the vent.

A squawk sounded, followed by the fall of an instantly recognisable body from the ceiling.

  “Really, Clint?” Natasha asked, unimpressed.

  “I almost had you, Nat!” Clint replied chirpily from where he was flat on his back, a half-eaten sandwich still clutched in his left hand. “Admit it!”

  “You’re gonna have to be a hell of a lot faster than that for this to work.” Natasha nudged him with her bare foot.

  “This was all _your_ idea, remember?” he replied, sitting up and then bouncing up onto the balls of his feet. “ _Constant vigilance,_ you said.” Natasha sniffed at his poor imitation of one of the greatest literary characters of all time.

  “Even if I were blind and dying in a hospital bed, I would have seen that coming.” Clint rolled his eyes as Natasha continued on her way to the kitchen. His footsteps sounded behind her as they entered, and she ignored his attempts to startle her by darting his hands into her line of sight.

  “Your hands smell of baloney,” Natasha told him, opening the brushed-steel fridge door and looking inside.

  “Then I have done what I set out to do on this day,” Clint replied in his Mr MovieFone voice. Ignoring him, Natasha grabbed one of the paninis Bruce had made that morning, closed the fridge, and turned to see Clint perched on the aisle and a newly-arrived Sam ( _when did_ that _happen?_ She hadn’t heard anything) on one of the stools.

  …

Now those who didn’t know Natasha particularly well wouldn’t have believed it of her, but if there was anyone skilled in the art of lying to oneself, it was her. If you were to catch Natasha on a day when she was feeling up to divulging more than usual, she’d tell you that in order to make everyone around you believe a lie, one had to believe it themselves.

Natasha was sure that it was part of what had helped keep her alive over the years.

How was it relevant here, you ask? Well, she blamed the Tower for having distracted her over the last few months, for having made her soft, but in reality, it wasn’t that simple. There was more than one factor contributing to Ms Romanova’s lack of focus, and at least one of them was a little warmer than the structure of cold glass and concrete.

Determination was another quality Natasha had always had, though her former minders had done their best to wipe it from her ( _the better to control you with, my dear)._ It was what had led her to keep trying to set Steve up with girl after girl after girl before _and_ after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., and it was what she was going to use now to get past her latest problem, because it simply _wouldn’t do_.

But more on that later…

…

  “Sammy!” Clint exclaimed, doing an intricate handshake with his avian brother. “When did you get back?”

  “About an hour ago,” Sam replied with a grin, eyes bright. “Got done early.” The King of Wakanda had requested his and Thor’s presence in the African nation, and they’d been gone for over a week. Natasha had had to watch that week’s _MasterChef Juniors_ alone, which had really annoyed her. She and Sam hadn’t even been able to Skype during the episode due to the time difference.

As he and Clint continued their conversation, Natasha noticed that Sam’s skin was slightly darker than it had been the week before. He brushed past her and opened the fridge, grabbing some salmon fillets and vegetables from the crisper.

  “– and Tony’s just mad ‘cause T’Challa improved on his designs.” Natasha tuned back in, only catching the tail end of Sam’s words. The two men laughed, Clint snickering so much, he almost fell off the countertop.

  “So when’re you going back?” Clint asked, biting into his sandwich.

  “In a couple of weeks or so,” Sam replied, deftly chopping some carrots with a chef’s knife. Natasha almost flinched.

  “You’re going back?” she asked bluntly. Sam glanced at her briefly.

  “Yep. To test drive the prototype.” He swept the chopped carrots into a bowl to his left. “Hand me the lemon, please.” Natasha did so unthinkingly, determinedly ignoring Clint’s sharp look.

  “How long for?” Clint asked. “I might come with you.”

  “Sure,” Sam answered, as easy-going as ever as he poured a little olive oil into the frying pan and dropped the fish into it a few moments later.

  “Yep. There are some things we need to discuss.” At Clint’s pointed words, Natasha perked up from where she was watching Sam’s hands expertly manoeuvring the salmon in the spitting pan. Her partner-in-things-of-a-not-so-legal-nature was staring at her pointedly, eyes annoyingly wide.

  “Oh?” Sam glanced at Clint, curious. “What’s up?”

  “It’s nothing that can’t wait.” Clint’s tone was as casual as his eyes were shrewd, but Sam was too busy turning the fish over, so he missed it. In the comfortable silence that followed, Natasha and Clint had a silent conversation with only their eyes and Jedi mind powers.

_What are you doing, Clint?_

_What are_ you _doing, Natasha?_

 _Wakanda? What would you be doing there? You_ know _you hate the heat. It won’t be like Abu Dhabi. I won’t be there to help you when you faint like a nineteenth century debutante._

 _I’m willing to put up with it if it means you_ –

_Not this bullshit again._

_Yes, this ‘bullshit’ again._

_Fuck you, you overgrown pigeon._

_And you, you_ –

  “When you two are done with your _Shining_ thing, could you grab some cutlery?” Sam’s amused voice brought Clint and Natasha back to the now great-smelling kitchen, and they turned to where he stood at the hob to find him transferring the salmon from the pan to three plates. Clint hopped down from the aisle and rooted through a drawer for some cutlery as Sam left the kitchen, two plates in hand. Natasha opened a cupboard and retrieved three wine glasses, holding them in one hand by their stems, and then grabbed some white wine from the rack to her left.

Just as she was about to follow Sam to the main room, a calloused hand gripped her arm, an errant fork digging into her elbow.

  “Ow, Clint,” she said, deadpan.

  “We’re gonna have to talk about this, Nat,” he replied, undeterred.

  “Darcy sleeping with Johnny?” She feigned ignorance. “I agree.”

  “Darcy’s sleeping with _Storm_?” Clint was momentarily distracted, before quickly recovering. “Oh, no, you don’t. You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m sure I don’t.” With that, Natasha quickly elbowed Clint in the gut and swept out of the kitchen to the sound of a pained grunt.

Ha. Served him right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I begin, allow me to apologise for this chapter being a couple of weeks late. Uni's being... well... uni.
> 
> With regard to chapter IV, however, I have something to say. I've never been one of those writers who adds a disclaimer to everything they produce which is always along the lines of the following:
> 
> 'I can't believe I'm posting this. It's tooootally shit... It's terrible...' etc etc etc
> 
> I've never apologised for anything I've written, and I've been writing for a long time. However, the previous chapter of TBP (IV) is the only one I've ever released of any story I've ever written that I've actively disliked even while posting it. I wasn't happy with it at the time, I'm not happy with it now. The only reason I posted it is because I wanted to get over the proverbial hump. I also didn't want to continue to leave you guys 'new chapter-less'. My only explanation is that I was going... through something. Something that I've struggled with for over a decade that I'm aware many others suffer from. I had a lengthy episode over the last few months, and usually I write to comfort myself during them, as a way to distract myself from... well.
> 
> And usually, I produce something I'm totally fine with or really like. For whatever reason, this time was different, and I'm sure some of you must have noticed it. 
> 
> The last chapter was weak - by my standards, at least. I do not say this to garner pity, nor is this an attempt to get those comforting 'Oh, no, it was great. Don't be so hard on yourself' replies that some writers seem to live for. I've always been a brutally honest person, and I'm rare (I believe) in the sense that I know myself in and out. I know my strengths and weaknesses, to the point where there is virtually nothing anyone could say that would shake my confidence.
> 
> So I'm woman enough to stand up and take this on the chin. My last chapter was weak. It will not happen again. The next time I'm unsatisifed with a chapter, I will not post it, regardless of how long it might have been since the last one was posted.
> 
> I've written all this without editing this, and I've gone back-and-forth with myself about whether to post the above at all over the last few days, but I wouldn't be the writer I've tried to represent myself as if I didn't - at least, that's my belief.
> 
> Anyway, thanks to those that read this. Feel free to leave a review of the above chapter and/or follow me on tumblr --> http://thebirdoffire.tumblr.com 
> 
> Love, kisses and all that...

**Author's Note:**

> This work is un-betaed. Find me on tumblr at http://thebirdoffire.tumblr.com


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